


Knocked For Six

by squiddz



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, And also the sex, Cricket, Disaster Crowley (Good Omens), Eventual Smut, Good AUmens AU Festival, I am here for the adorable outfits, I promise you do not need to know anything about cricket, M/M, Not quite slow burn but Crowley pines for a little bit, Rated E for Exposed Forearms, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24779872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squiddz/pseuds/squiddz
Summary: Anthony J Crowley is a former professional cricket player who fell from grace after a match fixing scandal. As he settles into his new life in Tadfield, he finds himself drawn to Aziraphale Fell, the eccentrically old-fashioned owner of the village bookshop (who also happens to be annoyingly attractive). As affections grow and arrangements are made, Crowley tries to navigate his feelings for Aziraphale while still dealing with a few of the old demons from his previous life. And I guess there’s a bit of cricket every so often.---An AU written for the GO-Events Good AUmens AU Fest
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 83
Kudos: 167
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	Knocked For Six

**Author's Note:**

> The time of Cricket AU is upon us. I 100% promise you will not need to know anything about cricket (I would not want to inflict knowledge of this sport on anyone if I don't have to), we are mostly here for the cute jumpers and strong Aziraphale. I have the majority of this story already planned out, so I am hoping to update it on the regular. There will be E rated chapters in the future, and I'll be sure to give a heads up about it (along with any specifics) in the chapter notes. Tags will be updated as and when they are needed.
> 
> MANY thanks to all the wonderful people on the GO Events discord server that showed my cricket AU idea even the slightest bit of enthusiasm. I would list names but I am afraid I will miss someone out. All of you made sure I stuck with this even in the moments where I wondered why the hell I'd picked cricket for my AU. Huge shout out to Amanda/bisasterdi for all their tireless work in organising these events and making sure they run smoothly.
> 
> All my love to anti_kate for being my beta and helping me brainstorm cricket puns that I *will* be subjecting you all to at some point, and to summerofspock for being a second pair of eyes and cheer-reading this chapter for me.

The Tadfield village green was a pristine square of grass, painstakingly manicured and speckled with cheerful little daisies. A line of poplar trees ran along one edge, dancing gently in the slight breeze. High in the afternoon sky, the sun bathed all of it in the gentle warmth of British summer.

It had also been steadily baking the back of Crowley's head for the last 45 minutes.

He adjusted the collar on his polo shirt, trying to find some cover for his prickling skin, but it was already too late. There were several ways Crowley had imagined embarrassing himself during his first cricket match in God knows how many years. Forgetting the sun cream had not been one of them. With a frustrated huff, he tightened his grip around the cricket ball in his hand, and tried very hard not to think about how it was now the same colour as his neck.

Had anyone asked Crowley where he saw himself by the time he got to his mid-forties, his answer would not have involved standing on the rec in the middle of some piddling Oxfordshire village.

After years of living in the heart of London, it at least made for an interesting change of pace. Tadfield was one of those biscuit-tin, postcard-perfect, six-time winner of Britain in Bloom type of villages. There were streets lined with crooked old buildings, a little stone church that Crowley avoided at all costs, and two restaurants that were only ever open for three hours on a Tuesday afternoon.

And, of course, the Sunday cricket league.

Joining hadn't been his idea. It felt a little tacky, if he was honest - former professional cricketer gatecrashing the local league to recapture some past glory felt more than a little pathetic. That had all been Anathema's doing. His favourite niece (his _only_ niece) had moved out to the countryside years ago, and finally twisted Crowley's arm into getting away from his old demons to start somewhere new. It was her bright idea that he should try the Sunday league, "to make some friends." Knowing that he would never hear the end of it, Crowley relented and signed up - though "league" seemed a rather generous name for what was effectively two teams playing each other every Sunday five months of the year.

Regardless, Crowley now found himself under a cloudless sky bowling his first match for Lower Tadfield, while a handful of people watched from the benches dotted around the village green. He rubbed at his sore neck while he waited for the next person to come to bat. Predictably, he'd made fairly short work of the Upper Tadfield line up. Not that he was bragging or anything, but it might have been a new low if he’d managed to fuck up Sunday league cricket.

The next Upper Tadfield batsman stepped up to the wicket and waved a quick hello to the umpire. Crowley smirked a little. Oh, he looked soft. Very soft, in fact. Also quite blonde. And his round cheeks were doing something uncomfortable to Crowley's insides. As the batsman took up his position, the rolled up sleeves of his cricket whites showed off surprisingly toned forearms. He adjusted his grip on the bat, and there was a brief hint of thick cords of muscle moving under pale skin. Crowley clenched his jaw and threatened his brain with an afternoon of talking to Anathema about crystals if it didn’t stop bloody eyeing up Mr Soft.

Pushing all that nonsense to one side, Crowley rolled his shoulders and took a running start before lobbing the ball across the crease. He readied himself for the satisfying sound of the ball crashing into the wicket, and perhaps taking a little bit of guilty pleasure in watching Mr Soft's smile fall.

Instead there was a resounding crack as the ball connected with the bat, and Crowley watched dumbfounded as it sailed overhead to land cleanly outside the boundary of the field, while one of his teammates, Ligur, trudged after it.

“That’s six for Fell!” the umpire shouted.

Crowley turned around to take another look at the batsman. He was gazing out over the field with the satisfied smile of someone who’d just successfully straightened a slightly crooked painting in their downstairs landing. Then he took out an actual handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was absolutely ridiculous and Crowley couldn’t tear his eyes away from him.

Well, this might be a problem.

* * *

The sun had dropped behind the treeline by the time the match was over. Crowley skulked back to the pavilion (which was little more than a changing area and a couple of toilets) without the slightest notion of who won, having been far too distracted by a head of platinum blonde curls to stay focused. He gathered his things from a small wooden locker, wondering whether Anathema had a bag of frozen peas at home he could stick on his raw neck. Before he could slink off back to Jasmine Cottage, someone punched him playfully on the arm.

“You comin’ for a pint at The East Gate?”

Crowley turned to find his teammate, Hastur, standing at his side with a wide, somewhat unsettling grin on his face. Hastur was a disheveled, shambling heap of a man who gave off an aura that Crowley found disquieting. He also seemed to be genuinely friendly, despite appearances.

“Oh, erm, I’m not—”

“Oh, go on! We always go for a post-match drink. Be a good way to meet everyone properly.”

Crowley briefly ran through a list of potential excuses, and then decided it would be far less effort to just go to the pub for an hour. “Sure, alright then.”

He let Hastur guide him back outside where the rest of the Lower Tadfield team were waiting by a sun bleached picnic table, and followed along as they ambled towards the village high street.

The pub was one of the oldest buildings in Tadfield, made of sagging beams and lumpy plaster. Crowley ducked his head as he stepped through the low hanging doorway and trailed after his teammates. The inside was dingy, but in that comforting, almost cozy way that was hard to come by in most of the bars Crowley had frequented back in London.

He followed everyone else to a table towards the back, tucked away in a corner near an old pool table. Once they'd all settled, the team manager, Bee, stood up. At little over five-foot, Bee was small, but their jagged edges were no less sharp. Bee was tough and biting and mildly terrifying, and Crowley had to admit he admired that.

“Alright everyone, good job today.”

There was a raucous chorus in answer, which Bee immediately silenced with a piercing glare.

“First of all, let’s welcome Anthony Crowley to the team. I think we can all be satisfied with our new bowler."

Crowley smiled bashfully and waved off the smattering of cheers and applause.

“Yeah that was amazing!” Their youngest teammate, Eric, was smiling excitedly at him from across the table. He’d been endearingly starstruck from their first meeting, and Crowley suspected he’d been too young to remember the more scandalous details of his career.

Next to him Hastur started laughing, something that Crowley thought sounded like a demented crow. "Yeah, right up until that Fell git, eh?"

"Even so, we’re happy to have you, Crowley," Bee said. "Alright, moving onto our next topic, I still need some of you to fill in the new paperwork for equipment hire. I won't name names, but make sure you get it to Dagon as soon as you can. Before I start taking matters into my own hands."

As Crowley was pondering the ominous nature of Bee's threat, the front door of the pub swung open with a burst of sunlight. The Upper Tadfield lineup filed in through the doorway in a haze of golden light, and headed to a table nestled in a bright bay window.

They were a stark contrast to Crowley’s team. Where the Lower Tadfield squad was kitted out with plain black polo shirts, Upper Tadfield sported traditional cricket whites; cream cable-knit jumpers over the top of crisp white shirts, paired with white flannel trousers. A flash of blonde caught his eye, and Crowley's stomach did a complicated backflip. Good grief, this was absurd…

Bee's harsh voice snapped his focus back to his own table. "Alright then, who’s ready for a drink?”

A cheer erupted as Bee left the table to order a round from the bar. Before Crowley had even had a moment to lean back in his chair, Eric piped up again.

"So, d'you think you could teach me to bowl like that?"

"Oh, erm, yeah. Maybe."

"Oh, give over," Ligur interjected. "The last thing he wants to do is teach some annoying little shit how to play cricket."

"Really, it's—"

"Oi, I'm not annoying."

Dagon barked with laughter next to him. "So you agree you're a little shit, then?"

The conversation rapidly devolved into a slinging match of light-hearted insults, and then shifted to hot topics such as the upcoming village fete and the new Chinese takeaway place opening soon. Crowley was content to sit in silence and absorb the mundane chatter. Once the drinks arrived, the coil of anxiety in his stomach began to unwind just a little bit more.

“Look at us, eh?” Hastur said, nudging him with an elbow. “Havin’ a drink with Anthony Crowley!”

“Cheers,” Crowley replied, clinking his glass with Hastur’s.

Hastur turned to his other side, where Ligur was leaning on the table with his elbows. “Who’d have thought, eh Ligur?”

Ligur shrugged and grunted into his drink. There was a microscopic slump of Hastur’s shoulders and he pulled back like a kicked puppy. Crowley filed that tidbit away in the back of his mind, along with all the other scraps of information he was gathering about his new teammates.

Just as the conversation shifted to a heated discussion about the plans for a new bypass, Crowley's attention was caught by Mr Soft ( _fuck,_ he needed to find out his name) getting up from his seat to approach the bar. He leaned against the mahogany bar top and started chatting away amicably with the bartender, an older woman with bright red hair.

Crowley quietly excused himself from the table and headed towards them, pint in hand.

Up close, Crowley could see the Upper Tadfield batsman had quite a lovely face; soft and round, with a slightly upturned nose that Crowley found fascinating. His cream jumper hugged the plush curve of his belly, and his open shirt collar revealed the column of his throat before it disappeared into a roll of skin under his chin. It wasn’t until the woman behind the bar smiled broadly at him that Crowley realised he’d been standing there gawking like an idiot.

“Speak of the devil!” She motioned him closer with a wave of her hand. “Az was just telling me he’d played his first game against Anthony Crowley. Sounds like it was exciting!"

The blonde man - Az, was it? - chuckled and regarded Crowley with brilliant blue eyes. “Perhaps not for Anthony.”

"Oh I dunno, you certainly kept me on my toes," Crowley said, setting his pint down next to Az’s wine glass.

Az smiled in response, a bright beautiful thing that deepened the creases around his eyes and stretched his pink bottom lip perfectly around his teeth. Crowley felt his knees wobble like a lovesick teenager.

“Oh, now where are my manners?" the bartender cut in. "I'm Tracy, my lovely. I'm the landlady, so definitely worth trying to get on my good side." She gave the blonde man next to him a playful wink. "Isn't that right, Az?"

"Haven't paid for a post-cricket drink in eight years," he answered, and raised his glass to his lips.

Crowley leaned in on his elbows and smiled conspiratorially. "Sounds like this one’s been robbing you blind, Tracy."

Tracy laughed and swatted at him playfully. Further down the bar, a small group of people had congregated and tried to catch her attention.

“Alright, best go see to that lot. I hope we can have a proper chat sometime, Anthony! Enjoy your malbec, Az, more where that came from if you like.”

Crowley gave her a nod as she drifted over towards the other patrons, leaving the two men alone at the bar. There was a beat of silence, and Crowley felt his heart thumping so hard against his ribs he was certain just about everyone in The East Gate could hear it. Mercifully, Az easily struck up conversation.

“I hope you enjoyed your first Tadfield game," he said as he set down his wine. Crowley's eyes were drawn to his forearm again, to the light dusting of blonde hairs across his pale skin. "I'm Aziraphale by the way."

“Very nice to meet you, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, raising his pint glass. “Y’know, it’s been a while since someone’s scored so many runs against me.”

Az - or rather, Aziraphale - laughed, and Crowley thought he detected a slightly nervous note to it. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. Still, it was quite a thrill to play against a former England bowler, I must say.”

While technically accurate, Crowley had only managed two international games before everything in his life had gone pear-shaped. He was used to people bringing it up sarcastically, smirking with self-satisfaction as though Crowley _hadn’t_ heard that joke a thousand times already. When the words came out of Aziraphale’s mouth, though, they were warm and genuine.

“How are you finding Tadfield? Settling in alright?”

“Oh yeah,” Crowley drawled. “Living in my niece’s spare room in the middle of nowhere, writing freelance cricket coverage from the kitchen table. Exactly how I imagined semi-retirement.”

Crowley immediately cursed himself over the acerbic remark, but there was a spark of amusement behind Aziraphale's eyes.

“I rather enjoy your articles, you know.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side. “You… you’ve read some of my things?”

“Well, yes." A pink flush appeared on Aziraphale’s cheeks, and Crowley thought it was far more adorable than it really had any business being. "I follow county cricket a fair bit, and your analysis is always so insightful.”

“I’m glad someone’s reading it, at least.” Crowley took a sip of his pint and then put a hand to the back of his neck. The skin felt like it was on fire, already starting to itch and peel. Just his bloody luck. “So, what do you do, Aziraphale?”

“I’m afraid it’s rather boring,” he replied, eyes turning down sheepishly to stare at a beer-stained coaster on the bar top.

“I watch test cricket for a living, I’ve got a fairly high threshold for boring.”

Aziraphale smiled, looking up at him through dusky lashes, and Crowley thought he was about to have a heart attack.

“I run the village bookshop,” he said at last. “And I collect and restore old books on the side.”

“That’s hardly boring. I'm a bit disappointed now.”

“Didn’t quite meet the Anthony Crowley gold standard for boredom?”

“I was expecting something at least within the realm of watching paint dry.”

“Well, that was certainly what our little village league was like before you turned up." Aziraphale smiled wryly. "I counted a whole six people in the audience today, a new record."

Something very warm filled Crowley’s chest. Before he could say anything embarrassingly soppy, a tall man with a square jaw and perfectly coiffed hair sidled up next to Aziraphale and flashed them both a dazzling smile.

“Hey, champ! How’re you doing over here?” He clapped Aziraphale on the back, and Crowley didn’t think it was possible for anyone to look more uncomfortable. “Getting to know the new talent, I see.”

“Crowley, this is Gabriel, our team manager,” Aziraphale said through his clenched teeth.

“Erm, pleasure,” Crowley replied.

“You looked good out there today!” Gabriel set two broad hands on either one of Aziraphale’s shoulders and squeezed. “But our Home Run King here gave you a run for your money, huh?”

Crowley quickly brought his glass to his lips before he could start laughing, and made a generic humming sound in response.

“Anyway, thought I’d come over to let you know that Michael’s picking up the tab today, so just let Tracy know, would you?” He squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulders one more time before he stepped back and clapped his hands together loudly. “Alright, I’ll leave you two gentlemen to your conversation.” He pointed a finger at Crowley. “Nice meeting you, Tony!”

As soon as Gabriel was out of earshot, Aziraphale sighed and crumpled in on himself. “Good god, I’m very sorry about him.”

"I think I'm the one who should apologise, didn't realise I was in the presence of royalty."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes as he made an unsuccessful attempt at stifling his laughter. "Oh, stop."

“Very well, Your Majesty,” Crowley said sagely. “Though, he understands we just played _cricket,_ doesn’t he?”

“Ostensibly, though he’s constantly on at me about _sliding into first._ ”

The two of them laughed, and Crowley felt his heart swell. How long had it been since someone had enjoyed his company as Anthony Crowley The Cricket Player, or even just Anthony Crowley The Person? Far longer than he wanted to dwell on.

They chatted for a while longer, until Aziraphale glanced over at the clock hanging on the wall behind the bar.

"Goodness, is that really the time? I’m afraid I’ve got to run, there’s some inventory back at the shop I need to take care of this evening." He gave Crowley one of those bright smiles that seemed to turn his insides into a puddle. "It was lovely to meet you, Anthony.”

“Oh, you can just call me Crowley,” he said. “In fact, I prefer it.”

“Alright then, Crowley. Same time next week, I suppose!"

For one delirious moment, Crowley was going to ask Aziraphale if he’d like to have another drink some time before their next cricket match. But the flicker of courage fizzled out as quickly as it had ignited. Instead, he rubbed at the back of his neck and smiled.

“Sure, I’ll see you next Sunday.”

Aziraphale started towards the door, but stopped dead in his tracks after a few paces.

“Oh! I nearly forgot.” He retraced his steps and reached into his pocket, producing a small white bottle. “It’s aloe vera,” he said as he placed it on the bar next to Crowley’s beer. “I always keep some on me just in case, the sun’s not particularly kind to my complexion either. You look like you need it a little more than I do right now, though.”

Crowley stared at the plastic container sitting next to his pint glass. “Erm, thanks.”

Aziraphale headed back towards the front door. As he stepped outside, Crowley caught a glimpse of the dying sunlight lighting up the crown of gold on his head, a glorious halo of soft curls, and then he was gone. He picked up the bottle of aloe, still radiating a gentle warmth from where it had been pressed up against Aziraphale’s thigh.

Oh, this was _definitely_ going to be a problem.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://heavens-bookshop.tumblr.com)!


End file.
